by Deidre Berry
The only other time I had been in a drug house was when I rolled with my date on prom night to get a dime bag of weed.
Now, here I was, a professional woman right in the middle of crack alley after dark.
It would have been just my luck for the cops to kick the door in at any minute.
Now it all made sense.
Laughing when nothing was funny, the red glassy eyes, frozen smile and overabundance of energy that kept him practically ricocheting off the walls—Anthony was always “on,” because his junkie ass was always high.
I don’t smoke cigarettes, but I said, “Damn! I left my New-ports in the car,” to no one in particular, and calmly walked out onto the porch where I took a much-needed breath of fresh air.
With keys in hand, I sprinted to my truck and burned out of there so fast that I left tire marks.
I was so furious I couldn’t see straight. I decided that the best thing for me to do was to go home and decompress, then afterwards, maybe go to City Tavern for a late dinner.
I was waiting for the elevator to take me up to my condo on the ninth floor, still fuming about the Anthony situation, when a male voice said, “Whatever happened isn’t worth having that pretty face of yours all scrunched up like that.”
I whipped my head around like the girl in The Exorcist and had the evil eye ready for whoever just said that, but I softened when I saw that it was Nelson, the caramel-dipped cutie who lived directly across the hall from me.
“Oh, hey, Nelson,” I said, calming down a bit. “You know, come to think of it he’s not worth it. At all!”
“Uh oh. He? Why is it always a ‘he’ who’s responsible for pissing you women off?”
“Good question! Maybe you can enlighten me.”
Nelson leaned in front of me to jab at the up button, you know, to try to hurry the elevator along, and damn he smelled good! Once I got a whiff of his Issey Miyake cologne, I immediately started throbbing down in the panty region. That had been happening to me a lot lately.
I had gone without sex for so long, it didn’t take much to get my juices flowing. It had been three months since I had been properly screwed, and three months is an eternity when you are used to having in-house dick, and getting it whenever you want it.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I think males get a bum rap the majority of the time because some of you women are just impossible to please. So, it’s like we’re damned if we do, and damned if we don’t.”
“That may be true,” I said. “But since when did being sane and drug free become too much to ask for?”
Nelson laughed, and I noticed for the first time that he had this sliver of a dimple on the apple of his right cheek, and his teeth were so perfect it made me wonder if they were all his.
“You’re right,” Nelson chuckled at me. “Those things are never too much to ask for. Especially sanity.”
Ding! The slow-ass elevator finally arrived.
Nelson and I got on, and we inadvertently pushed the 9 key at the same time.
The elevator doors closed and I leaned back against the mirrored wall, feeling my body relax for the first time since I got rid of Anthony’s tweaking ass.
“So, just what did this idiot do that’s got you so upset?” Nelson asked, shifting the grocery bag he was carrying to his other arm.
“He had me drive him to a crack house,” I said.
“Oooh,” Nelson winced. “Not a good look.”
“I know, right? And what makes it so bad is that I was kinda digging this guy, too,” I said. “Quirks and all.”
“Well, that’s the way it goes sometimes,” Nelson sympathized. “But hey, when it comes to dating, men get the short end of the stick just as often as women do.”
“Now, I have a really hard time believing that,” I said.
“No, it’s true!” he insisted. “Dating nightmares are a two-way street. Unfortunately, I’ve had some recent dates with women who didn’t have any home training, either.”
“Umph!” I said, genuinely feeling his pain. “It’s hard out there, ain’t it?”
“Most definitely,” he said wearily, as the elevator delivered us to the ninth floor.
We stepped off the elevator and walked together in the same direction until we reached our respective doors.
I paused to sniff the air, and breathed in an aroma so delicious it made my stomach rumble. “Somebody’s cooking something that smells good.”
“That would be me,” Nelson said, opening his door, causing the mouthwatering aroma to escape and assault my senses even more. “I was in the middle of putting dinner together when I realized I was out of a few things.”
“Well, your dinner smells divine, that’s for sure,” I said, wondering if I had any turkey salami left to make myself a sandwich.
I put my key in the lock, and was just about to say good-bye when Nelson said, “Tori, listen. I’m sorry you had such a lousy evening, but on behalf of the entire male species, I would like to make it up to you.”
“Really? And how do you plan on doing that?”
“Come have dinner with me,” he said, his smile reminding me of sunshine breaking through on a cloudy day. “It’s nothing fancy but I would really like to have your company.”
As Nelson talked, an image of what he could possibly do to me with those smooth, luscious lips of his, popped into my head.
Bad Tori! I reprimanded myself. Baaad Tori!
As horny as I was, I could not entertain thoughts of sexing Nelson because first of all, I have a “Don’t shit where you eat” rule, which means neighbors and co-workers are strictly off-limits.
This rule goes all the way back to college days, when I leased my first off-campus apartment.
Shane and I had met at the mailbox bank of our apartment complex. He was a six-foot-four premed major who introduced me to blunts, and taught me the art of French kissing. We would get loaded on Thai weed and spend afternoons in either his or my apartment, philosophizing on life, and making love. On one of these occasions, Shane’s other girlfriend, whom he neglected to tell me about, showed up on his doorstep unannounced.
Long story short: there was an explosive confrontation, the cops came, and restraining orders were issued all around.
When it was all said and done, Shane ended up choosing the other girl over me, and I had to endure constantly running into the two of them, both at school and around the complex where I lived.
Hence, the DSWYE rule was implemented and has been in effect ever since.
“So, how about it?” Nelson asked, bringing me out of my reverie. “Will you come have dinner with me?”
He extended an arm to welcome me into his condo, and the smells of basil, oregano, and garlic rushed to greet me as I stepped inside.
I am nosy by nature, so I tried not to be a bad guest and do an overt inspection of the place, but overall, nice digs. The living room was surprisingly sparse, but what furniture Nelson did have was contemporary with very clean lines.
He had the usual hi-tech electronic gizmos that men love so much, and there was a black Brunswick pool table in the far corner of the room, which I thought was a nice touch.
The entire wall adjacent to the fireplace had been converted into a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, and the shelves were crammed with mostly hardcover classics by literary greats such as James Baldwin, Gloria Naylor, and Paule Marshall.
The infamous Sugar Shack painting by Ernie Barnes hung over the fireplace, which coincidentally is the same spot where Vintage Grand Canyon Railroad hangs in my condo.
“These are the most beautiful plants I’ve ever seen outside of a nursery,” I said, fingering a Boston fern whose lush leaves seemed to go on forever. The fern was one of several house-plants that were all so healthy that there wasn’t one brown spot on any of them.
“Thanks, but I can’t take full credit,” Nelson said, setting the grocery bag down on the island counter. “Those were Kara’s babies, and her secret was Miracle-Gro mixed with used coffee groun
ds.”
Kara was Nelson’s deceased wife. The two of them had only lived in our building for a few months before her appendix suddenly burst, and she died in his arms.
That was almost two years ago.
A pretty, light-skinned woman with freckles and a wild bushel of naturally curly hair, Kara was twenty-eight when she died. We only spoke in passing, but I knew her well enough to know that she was a sweet, spirited woman who loved her career as a pediatric nurse, and that she and Nelson seemed to be perfectly matched.
I followed Nelson into the kitchen where the first thing I noticed was a full set of those Japanese chef’s knives that cost a minimum of one-hundred dollars each.
“You have to be a pretty serious cook to have even one of these bad boys,” I said, examining a knife so big and sharp I’d be scared to use it, for fear I would lose one of my fingers. “Let alone a full set.”
“I do a little sumthin’ sumthin’ every now and then,” Nelson said, peeking into the oven to check on dinner.
“Hmmm…” I said, inhaling deeply. “Italian, right?”
“You win the prize!” Nelson looked me over with newfound respect. “I didn’t know you were a foodie.”
“Oh, from way back,” I said with an air of casual nonchalance. It wasn’t a complete lie. I do love food, but I am nowhere near as hardcore with it as are some of the self-proclaimed foodies who travel across the country just to eat the food of a particular high-end chef, or to dine in certain five-star restaurants. “So what’s on the menu?” I asked.
“Oh, just a little Eggplant Parmesan, bruschetta, and Caesar salad,” Nelson said, pouring two glasses of Pinot Noir and handing one to me. “How does that sound?”
“Sounds like my kinda meal,” I said, taking a seat at the granite-topped island. “Italian food just so happens to be my favorite.”
“Good!” Nelson washed his hands and dried them with a paper towel. “Because the whole point is to show you that we aren’t all bad.”
“Well I already know that,” I said, taking a sip of wine. “My problem is that the good ones are so few and far between.”
“Right…But like I said, that goes for both sexes,” Nelson reiterated.
“Do you realize that’s the second time you’ve made that point?” I asked.
“Yep! and that’s because I just can’t stress it enough, you know?” He topped thick slices of toasted Italian bread with a mixture of diced tomatoes and Italian herbs. “I just started dating again a few months ago, and man! I’ve met so many undesirable women that I’m starting to think dating isn’t worth the effort.”
Wow. If I could only choose one word to describe the edge in his voice, I would definitely have to go with “bitter.”
“So how did you meet all these trifling women? Did you pick them or did they pick you?” I asked.
“Neither, actually,” he said, starting to assemble the salad. “They were all setups by well-meaning people who insisted it was time for me to stop mourning, and get out there and start dating again.”
“Well, I can definitely relate,” I said. “But you know, for some reason I just can’t picture you with anyone besides Kara.”
The expression that came over Nelson’s face was so pained, that I instantly regretted having said it.
“Well, every bad dating experience makes me miss her that much more, that’s for sure,” he sighed. “But, like my grandmother keeps telling me: ‘You’re gonna bounce back from this and get married again, baby, but it ain’t gonna happen overnight. You just got to take the time to sort the good ones from the rotten ones.’”
Sounds like the truth, but hell, who has that kind of time?
It took me eleven years of my adult life to find Roland. So if love only comes around once every eleven years for me, then the search for Mr. Wonderful is such a needle in a haystack proposition that I had better put on some comfortable shoes, because it’s gonna be a long-ass journey.
Over dinner, which was scrumptious by the way, the conversation was pleasant and flowed easily without too many awkward silences.
Nelson turned out to be a good listener, and seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. We talked about food, music, books, and our favorite films (mine: Claudine, his: Car Wash).
I told him about my career, and he in turn filled me in on the work he does as food writer and restaurant critic for the Kansas City Tribune.
“You get paid good money to eat well, and to travel?” I asked, actually a little jealous. “I’m in the wrong line of business!”
“It’s not a big deal,” he said. “Everyone old enough to cut their own meat is a food critic.”
“Maybe, but everyone doesn’t get to fly first-class to Spain to cover their annual wine and cheese festival.”
Being the humble guy that he is, Nelson shrugged off my admiration, and opened up another bottle of red wine. “You know, I heard what happened with Roland,” he said, pouring more wine for himself. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you two.”
“Do not be sorry!” I replied cheerfully. “Everything happens for a reason, right?”
I don’t really believe that shit, but at least it sounded good.
“Yeah, I guess it does…” Nelson’s voice cracked, and it sounded as if he was on the verge of tears.
It was the second awkward moment of the night.
The only thing I could think to do to break the tension, was to raise my glass in a toast. “Hats off to the chef! And to the best home-cooked meal I’ve had in a really long time.”
Nelson beamed, looking relieved that I changed the subject. “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he said.
“Did your mom teach you how to cook like that?” I asked.
“Nah, actually I kinda taught her. No disrespect, but my mom can’t cook worth a damn.” He laughed. “I started cooking for myself at about nine years old because she was always burning stuff up or making it too sticky, too salty, too bland, or too dry. You remember that song “Rapper’s Delight?” Well my mother was the inspiration for that song.”
I laughed out loud recalling the lyrics to the song where a mother ruins dinner by serving soggy macaroni, mushy peas, and chicken that tasted like wood.
“Do you cook?” Nelson asked.
“Actually, I am a better baker than I am a cook, but I do have a few specialties,” I said.
“Like what? And please do not say spaghetti.”
“What’s wrong with spaghetti?” I asked.
“Nothing really, but everyone swears they make the best spaghetti in the world, and most of the time that’s far from the truth.”
“Well I’m not going to lie,” I said. “Mine is bomb-a-licious! Okay?”
The look on Nelson’s face indicated that he didn’t believe me. “What do you put in yours?” he asked.
“A mixture of veal, Italian sausage, and ground chuck. Mix that with some portobello mushrooms, red bell pepper, and I make my own marinara sauce—from scratch.”
“Not bad…You might be on to something,” he teased, hating on my skills. “What’s another one of your specialties?”
“Hmm…” I said, thinking it over for a minute. “Oh! I make a banging seafood enchilada. I serve it up with Spanish rice, pico de gallo, refried beans, corn cake—all that.”
“Sounds like you really know your way around the kitchen,” said Nelson, finally giving me my props. “What else can you do well?”
I was pretty buzzed from the wine, and in my state of mind, What else can you do well? sounded like a loaded question to me.
“I can show you better than I can tell you,” I replied, and it wasn’t too suggestive, but just enough to give him the option to take it however he chose to.
“Yeah,” Nelson said, seeming to take my hint. “You’re definitely gonna have to show me one of these days.”
For dessert, Nelson served individual mango-lime tarts that he insisted he made from scratch. I didn’t believe him for a second. Those things were so good; I
was convinced that he bought them from one of the high-end restaurants in the area.
Once we finished eating, I helped clear the table and load the dishwasher despite Nelson’s protests about me being a guest.
I like Nelson’s style. Not only is he well-read and well-traveled, but the brother just lives extremely well, period. Everything he does is done with a high degree of style and sophistication, and he knows a helluva lot about food.
Kara was extremely blessed, that’s for sure.
9
“High-rise luxury living within a renovated, historically preserved building” is the line the realtor used to sell us on the place, but Regency Park Place has actually turned out to be more like Peyton Place at worst, and Melrose Place at best.
Things can get wild around here sometimes, but I still love living here despite the drama that can come with a building full of young, hot-blooded professionals with plenty of disposable income.
What I pay to live here is pricey compared to what you can get for the money elsewhere in the city. But here at Regency Park Place, $400,000 will get you an underground parking garage, twenty-four-hour security, a state-of-the-art fitness center, indoor swimming pool, Jacuzzi, sauna, unobstructed bird’s eye views of the cityscape, and of course, this gorgeous rooftop deck that gets plenty of use for sunbathing, cookouts, and private parties.
“I didn’t know Cuba Gooding Jr. married Tonya Harding,” I said, flipping through the latest In Style magazine.
“He didn’t,” Nadia said, slathering suntan lotion on her arms and legs, being careful not to get any on the lounge chair, or her teensy-weensy two-piece Juicy Couture bathing suit.
“So who’s this frumpy, cross-eyed white chick Cuba’s all hugged up with?”
Nadia laughed. “Girl, that’s his wife! They’ve been together since like fifth grade or something like that.”
“Humph!” I took a closer look at the picture. “Well that explains a whole lot, doesn’t it?”
Nadia and I were on the rooftop terrace of our condominium building, sharing a bottle of peach-flavored wine. The stuff is cheap as hell, but it actually doesn’t taste too bad.
